


Aftermath

by LadyTroll



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Dies, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Friendship, Gen, I picked the sad choice after the Chantry went boom, Missing Scene, My First Dragon Age Fic, Post-Canon, character death mention, redeeming myself in my own eyes, sadness with a big dash of hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: After the showdown at the Gallows, Hawke has one last thing he must take care of in Lowtown.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> I did the bad, sad thing, and I felt so bad for myself and everybody involved, that I had to at least try to fix it. This wouldn't have happened, had Bioware not depicted his death the way they did. So, here I am, fixing my own in-game canon.
> 
> Varric knows when he should keep silent and what should be left out of his books.
> 
> *I am sorry for any wonky jumps in the timeline of this fic.

Dust, ash, embers: they swirl through the air, caking buildings in Lowtown in a mixture of grey and coal, with faintly sparkling stars in-between. Shadows dance on the walls, twisting and turning every time a breeze blows onto the flames. The night is dark, and heavy clouds fill the sky, bearing a tint of red on them. Most inhabitants have, by now, fled for the Wounded Coast or the mountains, leaving belongings too big to carry behind for marauders of the Darktown to scavenge out of the abandoned buildings; those who have remained do not dare showing themselves on the streets. Shouts and curses roll in from the decks frequently, the few remaining ships getting laden as fast as the crew can manage, waiting to set sails with the dawn, should one ever come in this world ruled by twilight, ash, and despair.

A group of stragglers, those left of one of the many cartas in the underground of the city (both literally and as a figure of speech) are on a lookout for whatever treasure may still lie in the city now that the templars and the mages are done running amok, but they sneer not upon any wanderer stupid enough to come outside as well. Once or twice, somebody attempts to block the path, only to scatter aside as they recognize the Champion of Kirkwall and his perhaps most loyal friend. The two figures make their way down the street and disappear in the cloud of ash and smoke that seems determined never to let go of the city.

Into the view come first the stairs leading to Hightown, then the smoking debris - the remains of the marketplace buzzing with life barely three days ago. The aftermath of the magical explosion that tore down the Chantry is still visible in the sky; it casts a spooky, blood red gleam upon the city of Kirkwall, and muffled voices and noise are rising from beyond the now-ominous wall that separates two parts of one whole, as people are digging through the debris, desperate in their search for survivors.

\- You sure this is a good idea, Hawke? – Varric adjusts Bianca on his shoulder. The dwarf’s steps are heavy; the events have left them all tired and yearning for rest rather than clearing their path through the twisting streets of Lowtown.

The Champion does not answer. Most likely, he has not even heard the storyteller; even since the docks, he has walked on without even noticing the bandits who run at the sight of him. The reaver’s steps are heavy as well, his formerly shiny armour is dull, dented, and smeared with what might be mud, blood or gore all the same; the red scarf is tattered, and there is very little left of its previous scarf-ness as well as colour; the two-handed sword’s blade is caked in blood and gore, and the claw-like gauntlets drip substances that nobody would probably want to know the origins of.

Varric needs not to hear an answer, to know it.

No. No, it is not a good idea. But somebody has to do it.

Hawke. Hawke has to do it. Nobody else but Hawke, may Andraste and the Maker help him.

 

Nobody else sees it. Nobody else is allowed to see it. Not so close to the final battle, with the templars and their insane knight-commander practically knocking at the door of the Circle already. Nobody else sees the man, the Champion of Kirkwall, who has braved everything from mercenaries to Maleficarum, to Qunari, collapse on the cold, hard stone floor of the small chamber as he howls like an injured mabari. Not even Varric is supposed to see it.

When they leave the Gallows for Cullen and other templars to clean up the mess, Hawke informs them of what he intends to do. And that he does not expect them to follow.

It needs to be done.

 _For the sake of an old friendship, ._ he says

 

_Hawke knows how people die. He has seen it often enough for it to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. After all, their first year in Kirkwall is something neither he nor Bethany are all too proud of._

_Hawke knows how they die. How their eyes widen in fear when they feel a blade pierce their flesh. What sounds they make. How they clutch and grab, and hold onto the killer as though – the irony – their life depends on it._

_Anders does not struggle, does not clutch and grab, and hold onto Hawke. His eyes do not widen in fear, and he makes no sound. In fact, he seems surprised. Not about what he has full right to call a betrayal. Surprised that he can… die? Surprised that cold, hard iron has an impact on warm, soft flesh. Perhaps. Who knows what is going on in that torn mess of a mind of this creature. Hawke certainly does not, neither does he take it upon himself to understand._

_What he understand, however, is that the surprise is genuine, for (and it is a harrowing thought that has been boring its way into the back of his mind for a while now; shyly at first, only to become more forceful with every passing day) the figure collapsing on the ground quietly is no longer Anders, but a strange abomination: a mixture of something that calls itself a Fade spirit, and a man too tired, too deeply hurt by the injustices wrought upon him and ever single of his kind for him to no longer care about what happens to himself. A mixture in which the spirit, Justice, plays the first fiddle, and in which the human is merely a tool to be pointed._

_That simple. After seven years, it seems that simple. A tight embrace, a quick motion of the hand, a body sinks onto the ground soundlessly._

_Hawke knows how people die. Anders, however, does not follow those rules._

_There is no agony, and no fear._

_Instead, there is peace._

_Such strange, eerie peace._

 

The door of the abandoned storage house creaks open. In the darkness, it is difficult to see anything farther than own hand at first. One would think that, after so many caves, sewage tunnels, mines, and literally every corner of Darktown, a little shadow should be of no problem.

Once his eyes adjust, they reveal a myriad of things: wooden crates, boxes and chests for storing fabrics and valuable materials; woven baskets, amphoras, jars for foodstuffs and other perishables; in the right corner, Hawke recalls, there is a shaky shelf with old, dusty bottles (that can and _have_ been used as ammunition) stacked in strategic places to keep the construction from toppling over.

Crates, boxes, baskets, jars – everything is there in an abundancy.

 

_Reluctantly, but Sebastian still offers his help after Aveline leaves to gather the guards as, once again, all hell breaks loose in the streets of Kirkwall. He has been with them for six years; over the time, the archer has seen and experienced first-hand just how much of a found family the group is to the Champion._

_He and the rest of the group, met in Kirkwall, know how Aveline could not give her first husband, ser Wesley, a funeral, and that the Hawke family were forced to leave his brother’s body behind in the mountains surrounding Lothering. It therefore comes as no surprise for any of them when the guard captain proposes hiding the body out of sight until the madness has had an end._

_Not for the sake of making a statement. Merely to pay the respect to a friend by keeping his remains untarnished by marauders and thieves that are, without a doubt, already rubbing their hands together waiting to come through the marketplace later to take anything that has not been nailed to the ground. And to keep them safe from templars who would, without a doubt, do much worse than loot them of valuables._

_Everybody knows the storehouse has been abandoned for years, ever since the incident with three wailing ghosts and an insane psychic all too eager to serve up in the quaint hierarchy of the group of the aforementioned ghosts. The two men carry the limp body into the building and place him on the floor, and Sebastian watches as Hawke places the old staff next to his friend._

_There is not time for speeches and, even if there was, Hawke knows he cannot ask it of Sebastian. It would be the same as if he, Hawke, was asked to give a speech at the funeral of Quentin’s. Exit the building, close the door, and head down to the Gallows to attempt to stop the madness that has been brewing in the city for all too many years._

 

Normally, when you enter a place you left a dead body at, you should expect to find said dead body, not just the regular trash that takes up the majority of space. Even if the building is not designed solely for the purpose of storing a dead body, such as, say, a crypt, one still expects to find the body where they left it. Provided, of course, there is no necromancy or other means of unruly dead involved.

Hawke is certain there are none of those here. Whatever demons the blood mages summoned were too busy dying from the swords, arrows, and staves of those making their way through the city to be scouting through abandoned storerooms, and there have been no possessed children running about lately, too. Therefore, it is understandable that one expects a dead body to be where he left it.

There is a small puddle of blood on the dusty floor in the middle of an imprint resembling a human body. Footprints where Hawke and Sebastian have walked.

Hawke stands, staring at the spot where Anders _should_ be.

One does not have to be a mage or a templar, or a Chantry brother, or anybody of great faith in general, to know that dead people do not take time off from being dead. One does not get up and walk away when they are tired of being dead. Imagine the chaos and confusion if would create for all sides involved! The paperwork that would have to be done because your ancestors decided one day that they were bored of being dead and wanted to go back to farming the land they themselves split and left to their four children two hundred years ago today!

Some poor clerk would have a really bad week.

Hawke stares at the spot where Anders should be.

Hawke stares for a long time.

And then he stares some more.

And then he turns and walks outside. Offering no explanation to the confused Varric, Hawke unhooks a lamp that is hanging next to the door, and that has, by some miracle, survived the onslaught on the marketplace.

Glass breaks, oil spills, flames spread in the dust, reaching for the walls, the crates, the baskets and everything else until fire is consuming the room greedily, just like so many in the city.

What is one more fire, in a city that is constantly on fire somewhere?

Thankfully, Varric only asks when they are making their way to Hightown. Even if Hawke had not made his intentions clear before going back to the marketplace, he does not doubt that the storyteller would have questions. Even if Varric did not know who was back there, he would not fail to notice how easy – springy, even – the Champion’s steps are as the man ascends the stairs leading to the gate.

\- So… - The Dwarf clears his throat. – What happened in there?

Hawke does not look at his friend, but the aura about him has lightened. It is as though a curse has been lifted. The anger that had, with the fall of Meredith’s, lost its direction, is now rising towards the night sky, carried by the smoke from the storehouse where fire roars as it consumes the wooden building greedily.

\- Justice.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be honest, the first time Hawke meets Anders is when Anders brings a person back from what looks like a state of near death, and over the seven years Justice apparently merges with Anders to such level you cannot really tell where one ends and the other begins, and they can only grow more powerful from there on. Also, Hawke didn't actually mention Anders was dead in Inquisition.


End file.
